


High

by illwick



Series: Unwind [28]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fisting, Forced Orgasm, Homophobic Language, Japanese Rope Bondage, Light BDSM, M/M, M/M/M (Past), Multiple Orgasms, Name-Calling, Past Relationship(s), Polyamory (past), Prostate Massage, Rough Oral Sex, Sherlock/OMC - Freeform, Subspace, Undernegotiated Kink (past), Voyeurism, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-05-12 10:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19226956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Without the darkness, we cannot find the light.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, thank you so much for your patience during my brief foray into another fandom! But now I’m back, and I assure you I’m diligently working on the delightful “Stag Night” prompt, but in the meantime I figured we all need a bit more angst before we have our fun, hmm?
> 
> Please heed the tags; this installment features some unsafe D/S practices that don’t follow the “Safe” and “Sane” guidelines of “Safe, Sane, and Consensual.” I’m not categorizing this as non-con because the encounters, while not well-negotiated, are willingly participated in by all individuals involved.

_1994_  
Sherlock focuses on breathing through his nose and keeping his lips wrapped firmly over his teeth. Never mind the fact that he had no control over what was currently happening inside his mouth; Seb hated it when Sherlock lost focus and got careless and let the sensitive skin of his cock come into contact with his teeth. The last time it had happened, he’d shoved Sherlock off of him whilst calling him worthless and storming out, then proceeded not to speak to him for two full weeks.

So avoiding teeth during a blow job was imperative. Sherlock had learned his lesson, and he diligently opens his mouth wider to accommodate Seb’s girth as Seb’s fingers tighten in his hair and he commences thrusting deeper yet, deepthroating him. Sherlock takes a deep breath and tries not to choke. Seb likes it when he chokes, but it makes Sherlock feel nauseous, so he’s trained himself to avoid it.

He tries to direct his attention to his own pleasure. His cock is full and hard between his legs, straining valiantly against his trousers, his arousal so acute that he almost doesn’t notice how cold and unforgiving the floorboards are beneath his knees. He’d love to reach down and palm himself a bit, but Seb doesn’t like that, so he keeps his hands clasped dutifully behind his back. He’s being so _good_ for Seb today. The thought makes him shiver.

He’s glad they’ve given up on pretenses. Back in the beginning, Seb always used to ask Sherlock to _tutor_ him. Sherlock, awkward and antisocial, had suggested they meet at the library, and was completely flummoxed when Seb insisted they meet in his dormitory room instead. He’d been entirely taken aback when, barely five minutes into reviewing Latin verbs, Seb had leaned over, gripped the hair at the base of his neck, and smashed their lips together in a kiss that felt more violent than tender.

Because it was _impossible._ It was impossible that Sebastian Wilkes-- attractive, popular, easygoing and brimming with effortless charm-- would want Sherlock for anything besides his brain. Sherlock was a consummate loner (both by nature and as a result of his “standoffish” attitude), and the idea that someone like Seb would _notice_ him let alone _want_ him was… well, _impossible._

But as it turned out, Seb _did_ want him. For the life of him Sherlock couldn’t see why: he was pale, gangly, his facial features odder than the sum of their parts, his hair wild and untidy and his sense of style at odds with the fashions of his peers. And Seb was… hot. Sherlock hated himself for thinking such pedestrian thoughts, but hell: He was a gay teenage boy, and he wasn’t blind. He could see the way Seb moved, the way he talked, the way he dressed. The way he charmed everyone whose path he crossed. The way his eyes transitioned from friendly to downright _predatory_ the moment he saw something he wanted. Sherlock could see all of it. And Seb _wanted_ him. And Sherlock _wanted_ back.

“Oh, fuck, _yes,_ ohhhh that’s perfect. Such a good little slut, aren’t you, swallowing my cock like that? Pretty little faggot.”

The word _slut_ sends a jolt of pleasure down Sherlock’s spine, and he’s riveted back to the moment as a moan escapes his chest.

“Good little whore. Yeah, yeah, take it, open up--” a tap on Sherlock’s jaw as he struggles to open his throat wider-- “Nnngh, yeah! Oh fuck, fuck, you’re so filthy, dirty little-- ngh, slut-- choke on it, yeah, yeah!” Seb slams his cock so far down Sherlock’s throat that Sherlock’s nose smashes against his pubis. He wants to pull away, but Seb twists his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and locks him in place, forcing his throat to constrict around Seb’s member.

Sherlock’s eyes start to water. He tries to breathe but he can’t, it’s too much, he swallows but--

He chokes. Seb laughs and grinds his cock deeper as Sherlock’s eyes water.

“Take it, slut. You gonna be a good little whore and take it all for me?”

The tears in Sherlock’s eyes spill over. He whimpers.

In his pants, his cock grows impossibly harder.

“That’s it, that’s it, baby, come on…” And just when Sherlock thinks _surely_ he’s going to suffocate, Seb pulls back. He gives Sherlock a split second to gulp down a breath of air before shoving his cock back inside and thrusting with abandon.

Sherlock lets his mouth go slack as Seb fucks his face with unbridled gusto. 

It feels _good._ God, it feels good.

He’d never had sexual contact with another person before he’d met Seb. It seemed too… too messy, too complicated, too fraught, too intimate, too _much._ Besides, it wasn’t as if Sherlock was a particularly sociable person, and unfortunately the ability to converse pleasantly with strangers seemed to be an integral part of identifying potential sexual partners.

But then Seb had come along, and made everything nice and simple. For whatever it was worth, Seb made it _work._

They had a nice routine. Simple. Predictable. First they’d smoke a joint or maybe do a line or two, if one of them had scored that week. Then Seb would unfasten his trousers and Sherlock would get on his knees. Then Seb would pull Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock would clasp his hands together behind his back, and Seb would use his mouth until he came down Sherlock’s throat. Then Seb would go sit on the bed and watch through glassy eyes as Sherlock undid his own trousers and jerked himself off.

It felt good.

And while it was true that Sherlock sometimes suspected that there were some elements of their arrangement that might not be ideal (like the fact that Seb didn’t really like kissing very much, or the fact that Seb wouldn’t perform oral sex on him, or the fact that Seb rarely spoke to Sherlock when they were in public), sex was simply a means to an end. A biological necessity. A reward for his transport.

So it was fine. All fine.

“Fuck, ohhhh, God, yeah, so filthy, God, you’re so dirty, my dirty little whore, so dirty, mmmm…”

 _Whore._ Yes. Sherlock’s cock twitches and emits a spurt of precome into his pants. Delightful.

Suddenly Seb’s cock disappears, and Sherlock blinks his eyes open, peering up at him in confusion. This wasn’t part of the routine. 

“Come here.” Seb’s pulling hip up by his arm and Sherlock stumbles to his feet, his legs all pins and needles from kneeling on the floor so long.

“Get on the bed. Face down.”

 _What?_ They didn’t do this on the bed. They didn’t do anything on the bed. 

“Are you fucking deaf? Go on. Stupid slut.”

In a daze, Sherlock walks over to the bed and crawls onto it. He lowers himself down and twists his head on the pillow to look over at where Seb is standing, staring at him. His cock is angry and red and glistening with spit where it’s protruding from his trousers.

“That’s better. Good little whore.” Seb clambers onto the bed after him, and Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat as Seb reaches one hand underneath Sherlock’s body towards his cock. Was it possible Seb was _finally_ going to jerk him off himself?

Seb fumbles with the button and zip of Sherlock’s trousers, and Sherlock lifts his hips a bit to give him better access. “Oh, yeah, you want this, don’t you? God, you’re _such_ a cockslut.” Seb sounds simultaneously aroused and amused. “There we go.” With a flourish, Seb yanks Sherlock’s trousers and pants down to his thighs, exposing his arse completely.

Sherlock whimpers and raises his hips even higher, eager for Seb to reach around and _finally_ take his throbbing cock in hand.

“God, _yes.”_

And the next thing Sherlock knows, Seb’s grabbed him by the hips and slotted his cock between his arsecheeks and he’s thrusting with brutal force.

“Ngah!” No. This wasn’t what he expected. He thought Seb was going to touch _him,_ pleasure _him,_ not… not this, not this…

“Shut the fuck up and hold still. _God, oh Christ, fuck, you feel good, you feel good, your arse feels so good, oh God, oh… oh God…”_

Seb pauses mid-thrust as the tip of his cock catches at Sherlock’s hole, and for a moment, everything freezes.

 _Not like this._ The thought flashes through Sherlock’s mind in an instant. It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to have sex with Seb. He does-- at least, he _thinks_ he does, though it suddenly occurs to him that he hadn’t actually ever considered the prospect before. He supposes he’d considered it in a vague, nebulous sense in the heat of the moment while he was wanking off, what it might feel like to have Seb _inside_ him, fucking him, making him feel _good,_ but the reality of it had always felt entirely out of the question. Seb had never shown any interest in actually fucking him. And it had never occurred to Sherlock that he might want to.

But he doesn’t want him to. Like this. With Sherlock facedown and still almost fully dressed, trousers bunched awkwardly around his thighs, neck twisted at a strange angle on the pillow. Not seeing Seb’s face. Not feeling Seb’s lips. Not like this.

So Sherlock breaks the moment. He rocks his hips, and the tip of Seb’s cock slips past his hole and Seb’s length comes to rest nestled between his cheeks. Sherlock clenches his arse and raises and lowers his hips seductively, stimulating Seb’s cock as thoroughly as he can.

“Oh-- oh yeah, yeah, you like that? You like my cock on your arse, you filthy slag?”

“Mmm, Seb, yes!”

To Sherlock’s great relief, Seb’s hands come to rest on his arsecheeks and he squeezes them together and begins to thrust enthusiastically. It seems penetration was off the table for now.

“OH! Oh God, oh Sherlock, God, it feels so good… your arse feels so good. Ngh! Ngh!”

Sherlock moans and arches, raising his hips for for Seb to maneuver between his cheeks with greater ease. “Seb! Seb, yeah, yeah, like that, oh…”

“Oh… oh, God… oh my…” Behind him, Seb sounds breathless and a little lost, like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. “Oh my God. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sher-- Sherlock…”

Something hot and intoxicated floods Sherlock’s veins. _Sherlock. Seb was calling him by his name._

Seb never called him by his name when they were like this. It was always _slut, slag, whore,_ or some combination therein. But _this,_ whatever it was they were doing right now, this was _intimate,_ this was _real,_ Seb _wanted_ him, _him, Sherlock Holmes! Seb wanted him!_

“Seb! Oh, Seb, yes, please! Yes! Yes!”

“Oh… oh… oh… Sher… nnnngh, down, like this, shhh…” Seb presses Sherlock’s pelvis to the bed, and Sherlock cries out as his turgid cock comes into contact with the mattress. No sooner has he acclimated to the sensation than Seb’s hands are slamming into the mattress on either side of Sherlock’s head, and he begins rutting against Sherlock’s arse with an animalistic intensity the likes of which Sherlock has never experienced before.

The sensation is _incredible._ The feeling of Seb’s girth, thick and hot and wet, sliding seductively between his cheeks. And the way he’s rocking against him so forcefully presses Sherlock’s own cock into the bed in rhythic, ecstatic undulations, stimulating him to a degree he never knew possible. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Seb! Seb, yeah! Yeah! More, oh God, MORE, SEB!” Sherlock writhes beneath him and wraps his hands around Seb’s wrists where they’re planted beside his head, anchoring himself against the onslaught.

“Sherlock, fuck, yes, fuck, so good, so good, oh God, GOD!” Seb sounds breathless and entirely consumed, and it’s with a shocking thrill that Sherlock feels his lips pressing tenderly against the side of Sherlock’s neck as he moves on top of him.

“Seb, oh _Seb, Seb…”_ Sherlock struggles to spread his legs as wide as he can, and he can feel his cock forming a wet puddle on the sheets beneath him.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, oh Christ, oh God, it’s-- I’m coming, I’m coming--”

“Yes, yes, oh, please, please--”

“Sherlock, fuck, love this, love you, love you, love you, so perfect, I-- OH, FUCK!”

The next thing Sherlock knows, he can feel streaks of hot come spilling onto his lower back as Seb wails wantonly against the sweaty skin of his throat. It’s absolutely filthy.

Sherlock comes.

He continues to grind up into Seb’s twitching thrusts and then down into the mattress as his cock spills pulse after pulse of come underneath him. His eyes roll back in his head and he forgets to breathe and everything is beautiful.

He comes to as Seb is rising to his feet, casually wiping his own cock off with the tissues Sherlock keeps on the bedside table. He discards the wad of paper in the rubbish bin and then does a series of awkward hops, pulling up his pants and fastening his trousers, then runs his fingers absently through his hair.

Sherlock still feels too stunned and boneless to move.

Seb grabs his bookbag from where he’d left it leaning against the desk. “I gotta run. I told Drew I’d meet him before dinner.”

Sherlock blinks and swallows. He summons the strength to roll himself into a sitting position, grimacing at the sensation of come coating both his front and backside. “Okay.”

“Cool. See you in class tomorrow.” He reaches for the door handle then pauses, and turns to throw a glance over his shoulder. Sherlock suddenly feels very exposed in his debauched state.

Seb gives him a once-over. “So, hey, you know that thing I said? Just to be clear, I didn’t… I didn’t mean it.”

Sherlock licks his lips, swollen from rough use. His throat hurts. “Which thing?”

“The… you know, the _love_ thing. It just kind of came out. People say weird shit when they’re high.”

Sherlock nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“Okay, good. Cool. Just didn’t want… never mind. Later.” And with that, he turns and walks out the door.

So _that_ was the part he didn’t mean. The _love_ part.

So the rest of it: Whore, slag, slut, filthy, dirty, cocksucker, faggot… _that_ was the part he meant.

And it was true, wasn’t it? Sherlock looks down at himself, his limp cock hanging pathetically against his thigh coated in his own come as he sits in a pool of Seb’s, dirty and used and sore and worthless.

He curls up on his side, and cries.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t already, I’d strongly recommend that you read the “Absolution” installment of this series to better understand Sherlock’s background with Victor Trevor and what's happening in this chapter. Though it can be read as a one-off, I think certain elements make more sense in the broader context. Though if you’re just here for the porn-- enjoy;)
> 
> Note that in this chapter Sherlock is abstaining from alcohol as part of his sobriety, while you may recall that in more recent years, he does imbibe socially. I imagine that when Sherlock was in rehab in the mid-2000s, he was instructed in the Narcotics Anonymous version of sobriety, which prohibits the use of all substances including alcohol. However, research on addiction & treatment over the past decade and a half have really changed the way people approach various forms of addiction and sobriety, and I imagine that Sherlock has found that alcohol is not triggering to his particular type of addictive personality.

_2006_

Sherlock checks his watch. It’s 23:54 already-- later than normal. If Victor was going to pull, he was usually home with his conquest by 23:00 at the latest. Sherlock shifts impatiently against the soft leather armrest of the sumptuously stuffed sofa and stretches out his legs, long since having given up on the facade that he’s sitting this way for any reason other than the fact that when the front door to the building was opened, a metallic glint off the doorframe from a nearby streetlight would streak across the windowpane of their flat, indicating it was possible that Victor had returned. 

Sherlock spends a lot of time watching for that streak.

He sighs, tucking his bare feet beneath him and trying to make himself concentrate on the book that’s sitting idly face-up in his palms. Something about microbes of the Thames. Far too tedious for a Friday night.

A drink would liven things up a bit, or at least make him feel slightly less pathetic. But no: he’d been sober for nearly two years, the programme was _working,_ and he was clean; he couldn’t throw it all away simply for one restless night.

Besides, Victor didn’t keep any alcohol in their flat. He’d thrown it all out as soon as Sherlock told him about his past addiction and his experiences in rehab. Victor was thoughtful like that. Understanding. Good to him.

Good _for_ him.

Something warm and soft glows bright in Sherlock’s chest when he thinks about Victor. How earnestly he’d ushered Sherlock into the flat the day Sherlock moved in, how eagerly he showed Sherlock which shelves and drawers were now his, and how sweetly proud but cautious he seemed when he pointed out that the liquor cabinet was now empty. It had been beautifully endearing. Sherlock had wondered if Victor would have sex with him that night.

But of course, he hadn’t. Five months in and Victor still hadn’t engaged him in any more than a chaste kiss on the lips. Aside from the hand-holding and sofa-cuddling and co-sleeping that was part of their daily routine, they may as well have been flatmates.

Well. With the exception of _this._ Nights like tonight.

Whatever the hell _this_ was.

Sherlock’s still not quite sure how they came to this.

He knows it started on their three-month anniversary, when he’d pried Victor for information about why they weren’t having sex. Victor had been attentive, open, and patient… and then promptly suggested that perhaps Sherlock would like to _watch_ while Victor had relations with other men.

It had occurred to Sherlock in that moment that perhaps this is simply what things were _like_ in the gay community. After all, he’d never had a boyfriend, a partner, a-- _whatever._ Maybe this was just how things were _done._

And he couldn’t lose VIctor. Victor was _good_ for him.

Victor kept him sober.

So Sherlock agreed.

And so now, this is how things were. Victor out searching for their next source of _entertainment_ while Sherlock waited patiently at home.

It wasn’t _bad,_ the sex part. To be honest, aspects of it were… incredibly pleasurable. There was something deliciously _primal_ about observing two people engaged in coitus that aroused Sherlock to no end. And while sometimes he enjoyed imagining that he was on the receiving end of Victor’s advances, it was quite indulgent indeed to be given free rein to do all the deducing he wanted without being accused of “spoiling the moment.” He could engage in the exchange from the outside, without worry about becoming overwhelmed, distracted, or otherwise causing his partner distress. It was… optimal. 

Wasn’t it?

A flash in the corner of his eye jolts him from his thoughts, and he leaps up to peer out the window. He’s too late; he can’t tell whether the new arrival is Victor. He forces himself to sit back down. He takes a deep breath.

But then--

Familiar footsteps on the stairs. Keys in the door.

He stands. He’s never quite sure where to put his hands in moments like this.

The door swings open and Victor strides through, blond hair tousled from the wind, cheeks rosy from the alcohol, and eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. Behind him is--

“Javier? I want you to meet Sherlock. Sherlock, Javier.”

Javier steps forward. He’s _beautiful,_ with dark hair and stunning green eyes. He’s short but compact, and Sherlock can’t help but admire the outlines of his musculature that show through his crisp navy shirt.

“Hello, Sherlock. Victor’s told me so much about you.” He steps forward and places a quick kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Though I must admit, his words didn’t fully capture just how _gorgeous_ you are.” The next thing Sherlock knows, Javier’s threading his hands into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulling Sherlock in for a slow, sensual kiss. Sherlock shivers at the sudden onslaught of sensation.

“Ah ah ah.” Suddenly Victor is there between them, pressing them apart. “Javier, Sherlock likes to _watch.”_

Javier’s eyes grow suddenly dark and predatory. He gives Sherlock an appraising glance up and down. “Is that so?”

Sherlock licks his lips and replies as coolly as he can considering the circumstances. “Yes.”

Javier grins, a wicked, wiley smile. “What would you like to see?”

Sherlock swallows, his eyes flicking over to Victor. Victor’s pupils are so dilated Sherlock can barely make out the blue of his irises. He was gagging for this.

“I’d like to watch Victor fuck you.”

A knowing look crosses Javier’s face, and he turns towards Victor with a conspiratorial smile. “Ah, so that’s how it is? He won’t bottom for you, so he lets you get it elsewhere while he watches? That’s a pretty compromise, indeed...” His arms wrap around Victor’s waist, pulling him close so that their groins are touching.

“Something like that.” Victor’s barely able to vocalise a response before Javier is pulling him in for a savage, commanding kiss.

And just like that, they’re off.

Foreplay doesn’t really do much for Sherlock-- at least, not when he’s not directly involved. So he settles himself comfortably in the armchair by the fireplace as Victor and Javier collapse onto the sofa in an undulating mass of sighs and groans. Sherlock does his deductions.

Javier is 23 years old. He’s a software developer. He was born in Madrid but moved to Kent when he was… 7? 8? No matter. Two siblings, sex indeterminable at present. No serious relationships to date. Been out for at least four years. He has two pet cats (unusual for his demographic) and a goldfish. He likes video games, cycling, and cooking.

By the time Victor is extricating himself from Javier’s grasp and pulling him down the hall towards the bedroom, Sherlock feels better already. He follows the two of them and takes his standard seat on the chair in the corner by the dresser. 

Javier and Victor undress one another surprisingly slowly, considering the torrid start to the exchange. Javier kisses every inch of Victor’s skin as he exposes it, and Victor gasps and shutters and hums deep in his throat. Victor undresses Javier with sensual reverence, murmuring quiet, filthy things under his breath as he divests him of his shirt, pants, and trousers. 

And then they’re both naked. Victor pulls Javier in for a kiss, and their cocks touch for the first time.

 _Yes._ Sherlock begins to palm himself over his trousers.

They move against one another for a while, just swaying and frotting a bit, laughing and moaning into one another’s mouths. They look beautiful together, Sherlock thinks to himself-- both masculine and muscular and so unlike his own pale, gangly frame, no wonder they don’t want him--

No, stop, stop thinking like that. Focus. _Focus. Victor is doing this for you. FOR you._

“Sherlock? You alright?” Victor has pulled away for a moment to peer over at Sherlock. His lips are wet and swollen, and the tip of his cock is leaking a wet trail against Javier’s left thigh.

Sherlock nods mutely.

Victor smiles reassuringly. “Want to watch me suck him?”

 _“Oh, fuck, yes…”_ Javier buries his face in Victor’s shoulder and teeths along his trapezoid.

Sherlock nods again and bites his lip. Victor gives him a wink, and sinks to his knees.

Watching Victor perform oral sex is very pleasurable indeed. Sherlock’s grown to enjoy it quite a bit; he loves watching the way Victor’s cheeks hollow out with every luxurious pull, the way his eyes flutter shut when his partner cards his fingers through Victor’s golden locks, the sweet moans he makes as he swallows around a hardened shaft. Sometimes Sherlock likes to imagine it’s _his_ shaft Victor is servicing so thoroughly, but tonight he’s enraptured by the sight of Javier and the way the muscles in his glutes flex so gorgeously as he begins to fuck into Victor’s mouth in earnest.

Suddenly Javier pulls away with a shout, leaving Victor gape-mouthed and gasping on his knees. Javier grips the base of his cock and groans, clearing fighting to stave off an orgasm. Victor hazards a glance over at Sherlock and issues a cheeky shrug. “Guess I got a bit carried away.”

Sherlock laughs and Victor does too, and for a moment Sherlock feels _close_ to him, even from across the room. Eventually Javier gets himself under control and pulls Victor up to his feet. 

“The pair of you are an absolute menace. You’d better get to it if you want what you brought me here for.”

Victor pulls Javier in for a searing kiss, then steps back looks him squarely in the eye. “Get on the bed. Face down. No, angle this way, so Sherlock can see you.”

 _Oh yes._ A violent shiver works its way down Sherlock’s spine.

Sherlock loves it when Victor gets like this. Normally he’s so _affable,_ so witty and charming and almost _sweet,_ but there’s a moment in every encounter like this one when he just… _turns._ Turns into something _hungry_ and _horny_ and _demanding,_ the alpha predator on the prowl. It’s a side of himself he never shares with Sherlock. This part, Sherlock can only watch. He shakes off the tight tug of disappointment in his own chest at the thought.

Before him, Javier’s clambered obediently onto the bed, arse raised high and forehead on the mattress between his forearms. He arches his back and his hips sway seductively, putting on a bit of a show. Sherlock watches as Victor’s pupils track the movement, all cool, calm calculation. Victor opens up the nightstand and pulls out their supplies, then assumes his position behind Javier.

“Condom, yeah?” Javier’s words are a little muffled, but the demand is clear. Sherlock smirks to himself; Victor was always fastidious about picking _safe_ partners. Sherlock adores that about him.

“Absolutely.” He holds the condom out where Javier can see it, and Javier raises his head a bit to watch Victor open it and roll it on. “You like to be prepped?” He holds up a tube of lube.

“Mmm, God, yeah. Been thinking about it since I first saw your fingers.” Javier sounds a bit lust-drunk, and Sherlock can see the sex-flush spreading across his broad shoulders.

Victor chuckles, and Sherlock can’t help but smile, too. Victor _does_ have beautiful hands-- especially his fingers. Pianist’s fingers. Sherlock loves it when he plays duets with Victor on the baby grand in the sitting room, Victor making up for what he lacked in technique with endearing enthusiasm as Sherlock cradled his violin and allowed the melody to soar as if his soul itself was singing--

But that’s for another time. Here, now, this is about sex. Shagging. Fucking. This bit.

Right.

He reverts his attention to the scene in front of him, where Victor is currently scissoring two fingers into Javier, his eyes dark and filled with desire. Javier is moaning a bit-- nothing theatrical or campy, which Sherlock deeply appreciates. Victor glances over at Sherlock and sees him watching, and shoots him a glowing grin.

“Turn your face so Sherlock can see you. Let him see what I do to you.” Victor’s voice is low, and Sherlock’s cock jumps at the command.

Javier lets out an impatient whine but complies, twisting his neck and fluttering his eyes open to meet Sherlock’s.

It’s beautiful. Sherlock can read him so easily like this, read every twitch and quiver of his body, every microexpression that flickers across his face. He can almost _feel_ Victor’s fingers in him vicariously through Javier, _feel_ the stretch and the burn and the gorgeous, pulsing _pressure--_

Sherlock unfastens his belt buckle and his fly to pull out his throbbing shaft.

He strokes himself slowly as he continues to watch. He’s gentle with himself; any more and he’s sure he’d come too quickly. Javier’s eyes are riveted towards Sherlock’s cock, and he’s making quiet gasping sounds in time with Sherlock’s strokes. He likes being watched. So does Sherlock.

“You feel ready?” Victor’s voice is suddenly gentle, and Sherlock’s eyes flick away from Javier’s to glance down at where Sherlock’s now twisting three fingers into Javier’s slick opening. 

Javier grunts and shifts. “Yes. Yes, God, yes, Victor, _please--”_

Victor’s a bit of a tease; it’s always been his style. He withdraws his fingers and holds Javier’s cheeks wide, exposing his fluttering hole to Sherlock.

“Do you think he’s ready, darling?” He throws an almost infuriatingly casual glance over at Sherlock, as though he’s discussing the weather.

Sherlock purses his lips and stares at Javier’s arse, pretending to consider it. He gives his own cock a few slow, steady strokes, and Javier moans low and lustful in his throat. Sherlock allows the moment to play out.

Finally, he meets Victor’s eye. “Fuck him.”

Victor presses the blunt head of his cock against Javier’s hole, and for a moment, Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. Then Victor flexes his hips, and slips all the way inside.

Javier arches and cries out, fingers wrapping themselves tightly in the sheets, the dazzling pleasure and pain of penetration painting their way across his angular features. His thighs quiver and he rolls his neck, adjusting to the intrusion.

Sherlock swallows, licks his palm, and thumbs the head of his own cock. _God,_ that looks like it feels _amazing._ He can see the way that the dueling sensations interplay in Javier’s posture, how he tilts his pelvis to allow Victor to seat himself fully, how he rolls his spine to angle Victor’s cock just the way he likes it. Sherlock observes it all, wondering if perhaps one day _he’ll_ be able to do that for Victor. Offer up his body for Victor like this. Let Victor take him like this. It’s so vulnerable.

It’s so beautiful.

Victor moans and runs his gorgeous hands up and down Javier’s back, moving his hips in tiny, deliberate circles, stretching Javier’s passage to accommodate him. Javier spreads his legs a bit wider and Victor grins, then places his hands firmly on Javier’s hips and begins to thrust.

Victor is very, very good at this. Sherlock doesn’t have to be a detective to see that: He’s seen Victor with so many men, and every one of them has gone to pieces under Victor’s ministrations. It’s all so soothingly familiar now, the way Sherlock recognizes how Victor reads his partners, how he adjusts his rhythm and depth and angle in a slow, steady progression until he’s hitting _just_ the right place to make his partner scream and wail. Victor’s routine during coitus has become as intimately predictable to Sherlock as his own masturbatory techniques. It makes him feel like he knows Victor on a level he’s never shared with another person before. He _knows Victor._ Like this.

Sherlock is fisting himself in earnest now, one hand flying over his turgid prick as the other snakes into his trousers to cup his balls. Tentatively he extends his pointer finger to stroke lightly over his own hole. He never penetrates himself when they’re doing this, but he likes the idea of _pressure_ there.

“Nnngah! Ah! Oh, oh fuck, oh _fuck, Victor, right there! Oh! Ngah!”_ Javier’s head is still turned dutifully to the side so that Sherlock can see his face, but it’s obvious to Sherlock that Javier’s mind has gone offline entirely. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, and there’s a light sheen of sweat forming at his hairline as Victor plunders him ruthlessly. His cock is swollen and engorged beneath him, swinging in time with Victor’s vigorous thrusts.

“Mmmm, yeah, yeah, that’s it, ohhhhh, that’s lovely…” One of Victor’s hands snakes its way from Javier’s hip up to the back of his neck, pressing down slightly, forcing the arch of his back.

“AH, yeah! Yeah, like that! Oh-- shit, Victor, gonna-- gonna come…”

Victor licks his lips and thrusts faster. “Yeah?”

Javier makes a sound that’s completely indecipherable.

Victor turns to look at Sherlock. “Wanna see him come, darling? Want me to make him come for you?”

Sherlock can’t speak. Victor’s so beautiful, so goddamn beautiful, he can’t, he just-- 

He nods.

“Do it. Come on my cock.” Victor whispers the words low in Javier’s ear, and that’s all it takes. Javier reaches down between his legs and pumps himself once, twice, then he’s releasing all over the sheets as he buries his face in the mattress, crying out in ecstasy.

Victor works him diligently through it, eventually releasing his hold on the back of Javier’s neck and returning his hand to his hip, holding him up to continue to thrust into his rapidly wilting form.

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.” Javier turns his face to the side again and blinks blearily over at Sherlock. He looks completely dazed.

Victor slows his strokes and follows Javier’s line of vision. He looks down at where Sherlock is fondling himself and smiles. “You enjoying yourself, darling?”

Sherlock swallows hard. “Yes, Victor.”

Victor shifts a bit on his knees and presses Javier’s body down flat on the mattress. “Want to watch me come in him, Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

Victor smiles. It’s a pretty, precious thing, this expression he only gets when they’re doing this, and for a moment, Sherlock almost feels like they’re the only two people in the room.

“Alright.”

Then he returns his attention to Javier. He leans down and presses a chaste kiss to the back of his neck. Then he plants his hands firmly into the mattress beside Javier’s head, and begins to ream his lax body with all his strength.

Javier shouts and his legs splay out oddly to the sides. His hands fly up and wrap around Victor’s wrists, and he tilts his head back to arch his back.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it, that’s it, there we go…” Victor’s voice is low and dark. “Oh, yes, _yes,_ you feel so good, so goddamn good, that’s it, that’s it…”

Sherlock is jerking his cock so hard it’s almost painful.

“Oh--oh God. Oh, God, God-- _Sherlock! Mmm, Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”_

The sound hits Sherlock like a slap to the face. _Sherlock._ Victor is _saying his name_ while he fucks another man. He wants it to be Sherlock. _He wants Sherlock._

“Augh!” Sherlock’s orgasm hits him so hard and fast he cries out in surprise. Victor’s head snaps to the side to watch him, and it’s with Victor’s eyes on him that Sherlock endures the longest, most intense orgasm of his life to date.

“Oh, Sherlock, yes, that’s it, that’s it, oh, OH, God, look at you, _look at you…”_ Victor sounds as breathless and shellshocked as Sherlock himself, and Sherlock is helpless to do anything but tug desperately at his own member, which is still somehow (impossibly) expelling another wave of come onto his fist.

“OH! SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK! SHER-LOCK AUGHHH!” And with that, Victor’s hips still and his glutes contract and his muscles ripple and his head falls back he wails as he empties himself forcefully into Javier’s prone form.

Sherlock must have closed his eyes. He doesn’t remember doing it, but the next thing he knows he’s blinking them open blearily, taking in the scene before him.

Victor is still hovering over a blissed-out-looking Javier. They’re exchanging soft kisses and low words, and Sherlock does his best to tamp down the ugly wave of jealousy that rears up in his chest. Then Javier rolls over with a wince and a sigh and pads off to the bathroom. 

They don’t say much after that. Victor tosses out the condom while Sherlock cleans himself up with a couple of tissues, then Victor pulls on his dressing gown and Sherlock changes out of his suit into his pyjamas. Eventually Javier returns and gives them each a shy smile as he pulls on his clothes. He seems pleased.

They walk Javier to the door. _It’s only polite,_ Victor once told him.

Javier and Victor kiss a bit more, deep and sensual. Then Javier turns and gives Sherlock a soft kiss on the cheek. His expression is tender and honest when he speaks.

“Thanks for a lovely evening, lads. I’ll remember this one fondly for a long time.”

Victor smiles back. “Our pleasure. Take care.”

“You, too.” And with a wink, he turns and leaves. 

Victor closes the door, and pulls Sherlock into his arms.

And this…

 _This_ is the part Sherlock likes best.

“Did you have a good time, darling?” Victors fingers comb softly through Sherlock’s curls. 

Sherlock hums contentedly into the crook of his neck. “Mmm. Yes. Very much.”

“Good. Not too overwhelming?”

Sherlock pulls back a bit to meet Victor’s eye. “No. It was perfect. It felt good.”

Victor gives him one of his most dazzling grins, and presses a sweet kiss to his lips. “I’m so glad to hear that. Want to go turn on the telly and I’ll make some popcorn?”

“Yes. That sounds nice.” 

Victor looks at him with immeasurable fondness and brings his hands up to gently cradle Sherlock’s face before leaning in to kiss his forehead. “Alright, darling.”

This is part of their routine as well. Somehow after the adrenaline of each encounter, they both found themselves too wound up to simply go to sleep. So they’d curl up together on the couch with a bowl of popcorn, and Sherlock would rest his head in Victor’s lap, and Victor would stroke his hair and they’d talk and laugh and relax and just _be_. It felt simple. Honest. _Good._

But something is different tonight. Even as Sherlock tries to turn his mind off and focus on the soothing drone of the television, the timbre of Victor’s voice, the pacifying gentle scratch of Victor’s nails against his scalp, he can’t stop replaying the final moments of their encounter in his mind.

Victor wanted _him._ Victor called out _his name._ Victor wanted to _be with him. Like that._

And Sherlock… Sherlock wanted that, too.

But… but if Victor wanted him, surely he would have had him by now? If Victor wanted to do with Sherlock what he’d just done with Javier, there was no reason he couldn’t. So the only logical conclusion was that he _didn’t._

No matter what Sherlock’s fickle mind may tell him: it was just testosterone and pheromones and the heat of the moment playing tricks on his perception. Victor didn’t want _him_ like that. Who would? Sherlock can hardly blame him. His body was strange and awkward and his arms and feet were covered in scars from the track marks and he was too skinny, too pale, too malnourished from his traitorous transport warring with his prodigious mind and junkie soul. He was clean, but he was still an addict, and his body was ravaged from the effects of use, and he’d never be truly _clean_ again, he could never be _good._

He’d _never_ be good enough for someone like Victor.

He could never be _good._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t already, I’d suggest reading the installment “Revelation” as a precursor to this-- it details all the fun upgrades John made to 221C in anticipation of sessions like this one!

_Present Day_

It didn’t start out as a Danger Night. Usually when one was approaching, Sherlock could _feel_ it, a low-current, sizzling sensation beneath his skin, like the electricity in the air before a thunderstorm. But this one caught him off-guard. It had been a long time since that happened.

He and John were having a Movie Night, plain and simple. Rosie was off with Sherlock’s parents for the weekend (attending some society fundraiser for a local children’s hospital that involved pony rides and ice cream and insufferable crowds; Sherlock turned down the invitation with his usual air of disdain but couldn’t bring himself to deny Rosie the opportunity to go), so he and John had ordered Chinese take-out and settled in on the sofa for a quiet evening in.

It was John’s turn to pick the movie. He selected _Ben is Back,_ which Sherlock had never heard of but upon seeing it starred Julia Roberts, he wasn’t surprised. Julia was one of John’s perpetual celebrity crushes. Sherlock found he didn’t mind that crush; it was certainly better than John’s obvious attraction to Jennifer Lawrence, which Sherlock had previously deduced had more to do with her breasts than her acting abilities. But John liked Julia Roberts as an _actress._ So… that was fine. He didn’t mind.

The movie started and Sherlock was actually paying attention for once (after all, the food had just arrived, he was hungry, and John was watching the film intently so there was nothing else to distract him), but he found himself blindsided by the subject matter. It was about an adolescent coming home for Christmas on a break from his stay at a _rehab facility._

Sherlock was slightly taken aback. Usually John was sensitive to a fault about Sherlock’s history with addiction; why had he decided to force the issue front and centre? Had Sherlock done something to upset him?

It was only then that he noticed John’s posture next to him. His muscles were tense and his jaw was set and he’d stopped eating and was instead throwing awkward glances over at Sherlock. He was clearly uncomfortable. Sherlock had no idea what was going on.

Luckily, John decided to break the silence. “This is… uh, I think I made a mistake.”

Sherlock swallowed and tried to steady himself. “What do you mean?”

“I think… I think I got this movie confused with a different movie. I thought this was about a missing boy who returns home years later and some people suspect it’s not him. I thought it was a… mystery.... thriller… thing. Not this.”

“Oh.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and poked and his orange chicken with his chopsticks. His appetite had receded considerably. “Do you want to stop it?”

John cleared his throat. “Do you?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and speared a piece of chicken. “No. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He didn’t look over at John, but he could tell John was giving him one of those insufferably wary, sad looks he got when he’s worried something will trigger Sherlock. It’s dangerously close to _pity,_ and Sherlock cannot _stand_ pity.

“Maybe we should just--”

“John, I said it’s fine. Let’s just watch the film.” Sherlock didn’t mean to snap at him, honestly he didn’t, but John’s cautious coddling when it comes to Sherlock’s past was sometimes a bit infuriating. Sherlock knows he means well, but _honestly…_

“Geez, alright. Let’s just watch it, then.” John settled back against the sofa cushions with a huff, and Sherlock resumed tearing his chicken into clumpy, unappetizing chunks.

Watching the film was… hard. It seemed every scene raised a new memory to the surface of Sherlock’s swimming mind, floating up from the darkened recesses of his Mind Palace to the forefront of his consciousness. It was all so brutally similar to Sherlock’s own experience: the stealing, the lying, the gnawing, relentless _embarrassment_ and _regret…_ God, the only good part about any of it was that John hadn’t been there to witness it firsthand.

John knows about it, of course. Well, he knows _enough._ And he’s never judged Sherlock for it, never hesitated despite it, and yet Sherlock sometimes wonders what John would think if he’d been there. Back then.

Well, perhaps if John had been there, it wouldn’t have been so bad.

No, that’s not fair. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

He’s sitting there deep in thought, willing his heartbeat to keep regular time, when suddenly the dialogue is searing through him, cutting far, far too close to the bone. Ben was divulging to his mother that one of his main suppliers had been his history teacher, and that he’d exchanged sex for drugs. _“We… had an arrangement.”_

The stricken look on the mother’s face. The defiant pragmatism on Ben’s. _Too much. Too close._

“I need air.” Sherlock stood abruptly, nearly knocking over the half-full container of rice perched at the edge of the coffee table. Before John could react, Sherlock was down the hall and in the bedroom, fetching his hidden stash of cigarettes from beneath his deerstalker and throwing open the window to clamber onto the fire escape. He slammed the window behind him with an air of finality.

Christ.

That had been a bit Not Good.

His hands shake as he lights his first cigarette, but the moment the smoke hits his lungs, he calms. He lowers himself onto the gritty metal step and shivers. It’s unusually brisk tonight.

His arms itch. They hardly ever itch anymore, what with John and Rosie and the Work and their friends and their families and this life they’ve built-- he hardly has time to reminisce. But something about that film, that damn _film,_ he’d been suddenly viscerally reminded of what it felt like to _crave_ and _want_ and _need._ It was hateful.

He itches the crook of his arm through his dressing gown. He thinks about the old track marks there. 

He thinks about how John ignores them.

He chain smokes three more cigarettes before he hears the window open. He sighs, but supposes he should count his blessings: that’s more time than John usually gives him.

“Hey, you.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

“Mind if I join you?”

Sherlock shrugs.

John manages to hoist himself out onto the fire escape (with slightless less finesse than Sherlock had attained over the years), then pulls himself upright to lean against the railing and peer down at Sherlock. Sherlock resolutely avoids his eyes.

“Here.” To Sherlock’s surprise, John wraps a blanket around his shoulders. Usually when he’s having a Danger Night John will simply lean out the window and plead with him to come back inside, but it seems tonight he’s taking a different approach.

Sherlock shifts and flicks the ash from his cigarette. “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry about the movie.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Don’t be. Honest mistake. And you offered to stop.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean I’m not sorry it spoiled our evening.”

Sherlock shrugs again and takes another deep drag. Ironically, he finally feels like he can breathe properly.

“Look, if all you’re planning to do is sit here and chain smoke the rest of that pack, I’m going to go inside and go to bed.”

_Interesting._ Despite himself, Sherlock hazards a glance in John’s direction.

“But if you think you might want something more, if you think you might be tempted to… to go out and get something stronger, I need you to wake me up and tell me. Can I trust you to do that?”

_Interesting,_ indeed. Sherlock finds he likes this approach.

He looks John squarely in the eye. “Yes.”

John gives him a solemn nod in return. “Good. I trust you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t even have to read his face to know that he means it. “I know.”

“Alright. Goodnight, then.” With that, John turns and lowers himself back through the window. He’s just about to shut it when--

“John?”

“Hmm?” John pokes his head out the window, eyes wide and inquisitive.

“Thank you.”

John smiles. “You’re welcome. Night, love.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock doesn’t usually respond when John says that; he’s not much for verbal declarations of affection, but John understands.

John closes the window. Sherlock plucks out another cigarette from the pack and lights up.

Sherlock wakes groggy and grouchy the next morning, the bed beside him empty and already cool. Though the imminent Danger seems to have retreated into dormancy for the time being, he still hadn’t gone to sleep until nearly 3 o’clock, and he feels indescribably weary. His lungs burn (he was far too out of practice to smoke like that anymore) and his eyes are scratchy and he wrinkles his nose as the potent scent of tobacco smoke assaults his senses from where it’s embedded itself in his pillow.

What a horrid start to the day.

He rolls out of bed with a sigh and makes his way to the bathroom to shower off.

The shower helps somewhat. He shampoos his hair twice and is able to get rid of most of the smoke-smell before scrubbing his body thoroughly in an attempt to eradicate the rest. Afterwards, he brushes his teeth for a full five minutes and uses mouthwash, but he still can’t help but feel the stench of his transgression somehow clinging to his aura as he wraps himself in his dressing gown and makes his way down the hall to find John.

John is, predictably, already showered, dressed, and deeply engaged in some menial task in the kitchen involving bleach and a scrub brush. He gives Sherlock a cautious once-over as shuffles over to the French press to pour himself a cup. 

“Morning.” John’s tone is guarded; he’s clearly worried Sherlock is in a Dark Mood and about to bite his head off. Sherlock feels a twinge of remorse at the thought.

“Morning. Thanks for making coffee.”

John looks pleasantly surprised that Sherlock is being civil. “You’re welcome, love. Did you sleep alright?”

“Once I came to bed, yes.”

John gives him an affectionate smile. “Well, that’s something, at least. Are you hungry?”

Sherlock shrugs.

John gives him an appraising look. “Let me rephrase that. If I make toast, will you eat some?”

Sherlock considers the proposal. He really isn’t hungry, but he does want John to be happy, and it makes John happy when Sherlock takes care of his transport. So he gives a curt nod.

John gives him a wide, approving smile, and some little part inside Sherlock jumps happily at the thought of having pleased him. “Alright. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get that started?”

John peels off his rubber gloves and deposits the scrub brush in the sink, then gets down to the business of making toast.

Sherlock observes him carefully as he works. He admires John’s broad shoulders and muscular forearms, and the way his hands look as he pulls out two plates from the cupboard. Sherlock thinks about how nice those hands feel when they’re on his body. Making him feel good. And he thinks about how good it feels when he’s doing what John asks him to. Making _John_ feel good.

Sherlock clears his throat and shifts in his chair, trying to redirect his train of thought. Normally he’d consider proposing a session today, seeing as how Rosie was off their hands and they had the flat to themselves, but John had been going on all week about how he HAD to be productive on Saturday and finish up a mountain of paperwork (something to do with taxes, or permits, or… or maybe billing for the renovations on 221C? Sherlock had tuned John out midway through the explanation), and Sherlock knows it irritates John when he tries to distract him from tackling his seemingly endless, self-imposed list of things to do. Sherlock doesn’t understand why John can’t just let it go sometimes, but then John pointed out that _someone_ had to make sure their bills were paid and the fridge was stocked and the flat didn’t look like ‘the nest of a hibernating muskrat’ (whatever _that_ meant), so Sherlock had graciously let it slide.

He and John eat breakfast in companionable silence, John leafing through the paper while Sherlock stared off into space, doing his best not to look at John’s lips while he was chewing, thinking about what those lips would look like working something _else,_ not noticing the endearing crease between John’s brows as he concentrated on an article, and _definitely_ not watching his tongue dart out each time he turned the page. Nope. Sherlock was thinking of nothing at all.

John finishes his toast and deposits his plate in the sink. Sherlock has eaten everything but the crusts of his, and John looks pleased as he clears his plate away.

“I’m going to go down to 221C to start on that paperwork. Fewer distractions down there.”

Sherlock makes a non-committal sound, doing his best not to sigh. Today was going to be so _tedious_ without John around to entertain him.

John walks out towards the stairwell, but suddenly, Sherlock hears him come to a halt. There’s a moment’s hesitation. Then--

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you mind joining me for a minute? There’s something I need your help with.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. While he’s not in a _Dark_ mood today, he’s certainly not in a benevolent one, and he’s definitely not in the mood to go over something as dull as their finances.

“...Please?”

Ugh. Reluctantly, Sherlock gets to his feet and resigns himself to enduring whatever it was John had in store for him. He could put up with it for a little while, at least. 

John was worth it, he supposes.

******

“Nnnnnngh…” Sherlock does his best to swallow the moan escaping from his chest as he strains against his bindings, but it’s too late. John’s seated at the desk across the room facing away from Sherlock, but Sherlock would have to be blind to miss the way his back straightens as he stills menacingly in weighted silence. Sherlock freezes in kind and holds his breath; he hopes he’s not displeased him too much.

“Alright over there, sweetheart?” John doesn’t turn around, and his tone is cool and commanding.

Sherlock manages to choke out a garbled, “Yes, John” before sagging back into the satisfying pressure of the jute ropes suspending him from the ceiling of 221C. John’s mercifully done a bind that allows his feet to remain on the ground, but he’s been standing up for what feels like _ages_ and he can’t help but lean into the carefully-woven web engulfing his thighs, torso, and arms. The rope digs into his skin roughly, and Sherlock’s eyes roll back as he bites his lip. It feels _wonderful._ He lets his head drop down to his chest as he sinks further into the sensation of prolonged helplessness.

He desperately wants John to pay attention to him, but at the same time, he wants John to ignore him. Every time John _does_ pay attention to him, things get infinitely worse-- and infinitely better at the same time. Sometimes John will walk over and pour some lube into his palm and stroke Sherlock’s weeping cock until he’s shaking and sweating with need before cruelly withdrawing it just as Sherlock’s about to release. Sometimes he’ll toy with Sherlock’s nipples, twisting and licking and nibbling them while Sherlock strains and moans, then he’ll blow on the inflamed buds before nonchalantly turning away to resume his work. Last time he paid attention to Sherlock, he’d affixed two clothes pegs to his nipples before popping upstairs to brew himself a cup of tea. The clothes pegs are still there, Sherlock notes distantly as he stares down at his own body, his nipples angry red peaks of sensation clamped between the rough wooden teeth. His cock lays swollen and heavy against his thigh; he’s intensely aroused but he’s been denied for so long at this point, his body seems suspended in a half-hard state. That is, until John decides to approach him. Then his cock rises to full mast in a Pavlovian response, needy and pathetic and wanton all at once.

The thought makes Sherlock shiver, and his breath catches in his throat once more as he bites back a whimper.

John sighs and puts his pen down, shoving his chair back and rising to his feet with a weary shake of his head. “Honestly, sweetheart, you’re making it _very_ difficult for me to get anything done when you keep making noises like that.” His tone is stern and disapproving, and Sherlock clamps his mouth shut obediently as John rakes his gaze over his trembling body.

John approaches him, and Sherlock shakes harder. He can’t stop it; it’s an involuntary reflex, his _need_ for John radiating its way out of his body in this trembling manifestation. John is all calm, collected control, and the fact that Sherlock has all but fallen to pieces in his presence arouses him to no end.

John comes to a halt directly in front of Sherlock’s suspended form, cocking his head appraisingly. “Let’s see here. What’s the cause of all this distress? Is it here?” He brushes his thumbs over the pinched peaks of Sherlock’s nipples, and Sherlock cries out as the sensation rockets straight to his groin. “I see. Let’s take these off.” And without a moment’s hesitation, he plucks off the clothes pegs with a casual _snap._

Sherlock screams. That’s alright, he reminds himself. He can scream down here. John had 221C soundproofed _for that very purpose,_ so he could make Sherlock scream and moan and cry and no one else would know. Just the two of them. This was just for the two of them.

“Oh, _shhh, shh,_ sweetheart, you’re alright, you’re alright now…” John leans down and laps tenderly at Sherlock’s left nipple, which somehow only intensifies the sensation. Sherlock howls, and he can feel John grin devilishly against his pec before kissing his way over to tongue at his right nipple in turn. His fingertips skate over Sherlock’s heaving ribs, trail down his lower back, then his left hand pulls Sherlock’s cheek aside as he sinks three fingers from his right hand into Sherlock’s open hole.

Sherlock screams again, lower this time. John’s been prepping him so long he feels obscenely wet and open. He wishes John would just _fuck him already,_ but he knows John won’t give him the satisfaction-- a thought which makes him clench and shake.

John laves at his nipples for a while longer as he continues to finger him, guiding his digits in and out of Sherlock’s body in slow, maddening oscillations that make Sherlock feel everything and nothing all at once. Eventually the sensations stop intensifying and reach a delicate, dizzying plateau that leaves Sherlock panting and quivering against his bindings, falling deeper and deeper into everywhere and nowhere and all the places in between.

John goes away again after a while, walks back to the desk and sits down and starts working, but Sherlock doesn’t really process that. He’s floating, swaying weightlessly against the ropes that chafe and burn and bind and _hold,_ and he doesn’t have to worry about anything besides being _here,_ right where John wants him, that’s all that matters, all that matters in the world…

The shadows in the room are longer when John rises again. He approaches Sherlock slowly, appraisingly, and Sherlock whines a bit in the back of his throat but otherwise doesn’t move. This seems to satisfy John, who smiles warmly at him and cups his chin gently in his hands before pressing a sweet kiss to Sherlock’s hungry lips. It’s like water to a man dying of thirst, and Sherlock surges upwards into the sensation. John chuckles and runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and Sherlock could die of happiness in that moment, just _die…_

But of course John isn’t going to let him die. No, John is kissing his way across Sherlock’s jawbone, down his neck, across his clavicles, then reaching behind him to press his fingers inside him once more, four this time. His fingers are wet with lube that Sherlock can’t remember him applying, but it doesn’t matter, not really, all that matters is having a piece of John _inside_ him, it’s always so good, so right to feel John inside him like this…

“Mmm, sweetheart, you’re so nice and open for me, aren’t you?” John stares intently into Sherlock’s eyes as he penetrates him.

Reply. John is expecting a reply. Sherlock wills his hard drive to send the code for speech to his tongue and lips. Come on. Come on, now.

“Yes.” His voice is gravelly and strange, his vocal cords strained from screaming and moaning and making all the noises he knows John likes to hear, and the word is so slurred he sounds drunk.

John grins again, his eyes sparkling with delight at Sherlock’s obvious display of helplessness. “Haven’t felt you this open in a while, love. You’re so relaxed, taking me so well today, aren’t you?” Without removing his fingers he makes his way to stand behind Sherlock, pressing his chest against Sherlock’s back and wrapping one muscular arm across Sherlock’s body to pull him close while his other hand continues to work his fingers in and out of him in a steady rhythm.

“Yes.” Sherlock would normally say, _Yes, John,_ but he’s so _high,_ he’s so fucking _high,_ he’s out of his head with it, he can’t… he can’t…

John leans in to whisper low and dirty into Sherlock’s ear. “Think I could fit all five of my fingers in here?” Sherlock can feel John’s thumb brush lightly against his stretched rim. “Think I could fit my whole _hand?_ Goddamn, sweetheart, you’d open up for me so nicely, take everything I’d give you, wouldn’t you, let me stretch you so far--”

And god dammit, John, that’s not fair, it’s not _fair,_ he fucking _knows_ how Sherlock feels about fisting, the mere _thought_ of it is enough to get him hot and bothered under normal circumstances (and honestly, the _thought_ of it is all he has, since John’s never actually _done_ it to him before), and in his current state, it’s all too much.

John’s continuing to spew a filthy litany about how far Sherlock would take his fist, and Sherlock can feel the tip of John’s thumb press into his hole, and all of a sudden--

Fuck, _fuck,_ he’s coming, his cock spurting streaks of semen across the concrete floor completely untouched as he throws his head back and wails, and his channel is clamping down on John’s fingers and John’s fucking _rubbing his damn prostate_ and that’s just making him come harder and dammit, John, _fuck..._

He comes to to find John standing in front of him, arms crossed, glaring daggers at Sherlock’s wilted form dangling from the ropes. “Are you quite finished, _darling?”_

Shit. John’s calling him _darling._ That’s not good. That’s bad. John calls him that when he’s bad because Sherlock doesn’t like that name. But Sherlock likes it when John uses it because he likes being bad for John sometimes even when he wants to be good for John most of the time, and that doesn’t make sense, but it does, somehow, that he wants to be bad and good and it’s all okay because John says, _it’s fine, it’s all fine,_ and yes, it’s all fine, so it’s okay.

“S-s-sorry,” Sherlock croaks. His whole body feels blisteringly oversensitive. He can feel his spent cock hanging heavily in front of him, and he shudders in regret. John will have to punish him now.

John purses his lips. “Well, I’m glad you’re sorry, but that doesn’t really help _me_ out, does it? I wanted to feel you come on my cock, but instead you’ve gone and taken all the pleasure for yourself. You’ve come without my permission, and that’s completely unacceptable. Not to mention awfully selfish, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. He hates it when John’s disappointed. “Yes.” He can feel tears welling up behind his eyelids.

But then John is close to him, cupping his face in his hands, and Sherlock lets his eyes flutter open again so that John can say what he has to say. “You know I have to punish you now, right?” Sherlock nods miserably. “But here’s the good news, love: After that’s done, if you take what I give you, you’ll have made me very proud, and I’ll give you a reward. Would you like that?” Sherlock nods, more enthusiastically this time.

John smiles. “Good. Now, let’s get you down from here so we can get the hard bit over with, hmm?”

John braces Sherlock in his arms as he unrigs him from the ceiling. Sherlock’s legs feel fine, but John confirms with him before he asks him to walk. Sherlock wants to scoff at him, but three steps in he finds he’s very glad that John is still beside him with one arm wrapped around his waist, leading him gently across the room.

He brings Sherlock over to the large island in the middle of the lab section of the room. He produces a step stool from somewhere (Sherlock has no presence of mind to question where) and guides him to first sit on the table, then lie down face-up. At some point in the process, he’s reoriented Sherlock’s arms from being bound behind his back to being up over his head, but Sherlock barely notices until he feels John begin to pull the bindings tight once more as he proceeds to fasten his body firmly to the table.

John (clever, perfect John) had had the table rigged with a series of loops and hooks underneath it for circumstances just like this one. He’s only bound Sherlock to it a few times before now, and Sherlock finds he’s eager to repeat the experience. It makes him feel like a beautiful bug, pinned to a slide beneath a glorious, glowing microscope. The thought alone thrills him.

John works quickly to fasten a series of ropes through the jute web already encasing Sherlock’s body, securing him to the hard metal surface below. He pins Sherlock’s arms above his head, ties down his torso with _just_ the right amount of pressure, and then pauses before he starts on Sherlock’s legs.

“Alright if I immobilize your legs, sweetheart?” He always asks. Always. Because once Sherlock told him that sometimes it made him feel claustrophobic when John bound his legs. So now John always asks his permission. John is thoughtful and careful and wonderful like that.

“Yes, please.” John smiles, then secures Sherlock’s calves to his thighs and his thighs to the table and now he’s spread out and splayed and _vulgar_ and _open_ and good, so good, so _good…_

John squeezes his hands, and Sherlock squeezes back. That’s their unspoken signal that blood flow is unimpaired and Sherlock is ready to proceed. Then John moves down his body and squeezes his feet. Sherlock flexes them in affirmation. He’s glad he doesn’t have to speak anymore. 

Finally, John comes to stand beside him, looking down at him with unbridled adoration. Sherlock preens.

“Alright, love. You were very bad just now, you know that, right?”

Sherlock nods.

“And do you remember what the punishment is for coming before I make you?”

Sherlock swallows. And nods again.

John gives a reluctant sigh. “It’s unfortunate, sweetheart, it really is. We were having such a nice time, but you had to go and misbehave. How many do you think you owe me, ruining a moment like that one?”

Sherlock mulls it over intently. He had been _very_ bad indeed-- John had been so _good_ to him all day, and Sherlock had ruined everything and denied John the pleasure of granting him his release. He blushes in mortifying recollection of how _amazing_ it had felt… He was selfish, so selfish, taking all the pleasure for himself and offering none to John…

“Three.”

John raises his eyebrows. “Three?”

Sherlock bites his lip. Perhaps he’d been too audacious and lowballed it. “Or… more?”

John laughs out loud. “I was going to say two, but hell, if you insist, three it is.”

Damn. Sherlock had overplayed his hand. Unfair of John to expect him to be _clever_ when his brain was all addled and strange. Oh, well. Nothing for it, then. He’d just have to lie here and take it.

John’s disappeared over on the other side of the room, rummaging around with something Sherlock can’t quite identify. He’d turn his head to the side to look, but honestly, he can’t be arsed to care what’s about to happen to him. It was all in John’s hands now. He was just along for the ride.

John reappears and holds up another length of jute rope. It’s thicker than the ones he’s been using up until now, and it’s an inky black instead of deep crimson. Sherlock stares at it uncomprehendingly.

“Going to gag you with this, love, but we need to review our rules first. How do you tell me to stop when you can’t speak?”

Sherlock’s brain whirls and clicks. “Two snaps.”

“Good. How do you tell me to pause?” 

“One snap.” 

“Good. Are you ready to start?”

Consent. Informed, enthusiastic consent. That’s what John is asking him for.

Perfect John. Perfect, wonderful, incredible John.

“Yes, please.”

John ruffles Sherlock’s hair fondly. “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s begin. Open up.”

Sherlock opens his mouth wide on command, and John presses the thick length of rope between his teeth. The taste of the rope is bitter and earthy on his tongue, and he whines lightly against it as John secures the ends of the rope to the table, immobilizing Sherlock’s head beneath the gag. Then he leans over and presses a light kiss against his obscenely gaping mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut. There’s the sound of more movement, and then--

_Agony._ Flames of pure, unadulterated agony radiate from his chest to his cock, and he screams against the rope holding him firmly in place.

The clothes pegs. John’s put the clothes pegs back on his abused nipples. The sensation is overbearing and acute and he wants to curl up against its onslaught, but the ropes have him completely and thoroughly paralyzed. He strains valiantly against them, but he knows it’s useless-- John is many things but careless is not one of them, and Sherlock suddenly becomes startlingly aware that he is well and truly fucked. This was going to be unpleasant indeed.

Christ, he can’t wait. He can already feel himself getting hard.

His eyes are open now but he can’t see John. He can’t even lift his head an inch off the table to peer down and see what John might be up to. He’s utterly helpless.

The next sensation is familiar and not at all unexpected: the smooth, slick girth of the vibrator pressing inside him. He cringes; he knew this was coming, of course, what else could it have been, but _still,_ the reality of the penetration ratchets up the heady anticipation already coursing through his veins, and he can feel his passage clench against the intrusion.

It’s not uncomfortable, not really-- John had more than adequately prepped him. But he knows what’s about to happen, and even so, he can’t decide which is more terrible: the weight and width of the object in his arse, or the dread of what it’s about to do to him.

He doesn’t have much time to contemplate it. The next thing he knows, the device has buzzed to life and John is thrusting it in and out of his body in sharp, staccato strokes, hitting his prostate dead-on each time. It’s a brutal, relentless fucking, the kind that make his eyes roll back and his throat constrict and his hands clench into fists where they’re bound tightly above his head. He can feel his cock responding despite his discomfort, feel the tightening sensation between his legs and the deep heat pooling in his abdomen that indicates he’s fully aroused. He doesn’t understand why his body is like this, how something so vicious can be so _pleasurable,_ but he can’t resist it, never could-- especially not with John. John, his brilliant conductor of light, who is now all but channeling lightning into his frayed nerves and misfiring neurons, blending _ache_ and _want_ and _need_ into an intoxicating elixir that makes his blood boil and the world go dark.

Suddenly, John’s voice echoes through the room, permeating the depths of Sherlock’s consciousness with a singular command. “Now. Come.”

He endures the ensuing orgasm with a combination of ecstasy and grim determination, screaming savagely into his gag as his body is wracked with waves of relentless pleasure. John doesn’t even touch his cock; he simply continues to ram the vibrator against Sherlock’s prostate with clinical precision, wringing the come out of him in harsh, commanding pulses. Each wave triggers a shudder that radiates from Sherlock’s spine the furthest extremities of his corporeal form, and he can feel himself breaking out in a cold, clammy sweat. As the sensation recedes he slams his eyes shut and whimpers, his body going limp against the sterile surface below.

“Shhhh, there we go, that’s it, so beautiful…” The toy is still in his arse but now John’s fingers are in his hair, combing through his matted locks and tracing gently along his sweat-soaked brow. Sherlock does his best to lean into John’s touch, but his mobility is so restricted in his current position, he can’t do much more than rock his head gently side to side. The edges of his mouth chafe against the rope, but he barely feels it. He’s too lost in the rest of it all.

“That was gorgeous, sweetheart, you look so pretty when you come for me like that. Can you open your eyes?”

Sherlock wills his eyes to open, and he sees John’s face hovering above him, his eyes still the steely blue of an officer in command. In moments like this, he feels as though those eyes can see right through him, to the very core of his existence, to the very essence of all he _is_ and all he ever _was_ and _John, look at me, look at me, look at what I do for you…_

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re so perfect, love, so perfect when you’re like this.” His face is stern but fond. His hands are strong but gentle. _John, John, God, John..._

“Come on, now. Two more. Let me see you let go for me, sweetheart, show me what you’ll do for me…” With that, he angles the vibrator upwards to press firmly against Sherlock’s prostate.

He’s not thrusting it any more, just holding it steady against that bundle of nerves that he always finds with a doctor’s unerring intuition. Sherlock cringes and arches as his body lights up from within, his whole pelvis a sudden pool of molten warmth, and he struggles to spread his legs impossibly further than they’re already spread, making room for the ensuing onslaught.

“There we go, already getting hard for me again, shhhh, shhhh, just like that…” John’s hand disappears from Sherlock’s hair, and the next thing he knows it’s wrapped around his limp cock, stroking him firmly.

It’s too much. Sherlock wails, and he can feel the tears welling up in his eyes spilling over to run down his cheeks. But it’s alright, it’s all fine-- he knows John loves it when he cries. And he knows that later, John will kiss the tears away and make it all better. But first, he has to prove to John that he can surrender.

He wants to beg, but the rope in his mouth prevents him from making any sound before a few garbled grunts that John only acknowledges with the quirk of his lips and an expression of vague amusement. He doesn’t relent; he continues to stroke Sherlock’s oversensitive shaft until somehow, against every intuition of human anatomy, it begins to fill and harden once more.

“Mmm, look at that.” John’s gazing down fondly at Sherlock’s prick, and pauses the ministration of his hand to swirl his thumb over the damp head of it. Sherlock tenses and jerks as his cock gives a traitorous throb, and John laughs. “God, love. You should see yourself right now. So good for me. So pretty, so perfect, so brilliant. You’re amazing, incredible, _God, Sherlock…”_ He continues to toy with just the tip of Sherlock’s member, the most sensitive part of him, and Sherlock cries out in agony.

He’s not sure how long John strings him out like that, because his mind drops in on itself and he’s suspended in whatever this place is that John takes him to, and he doesn’t know where he is or what he wants except _John John John_ and he’s being so _good_ and he wants John to _see--_

And then John’s jerking his shaft mercilessly in sharp, quick strokes, flicking his thumb over the head each time _just_ how Sherlock likes it best.

“Come.”

Sherlock does.

And now he’s-- he’s-- he’s _here._ He’d describe it as _gone,_ but no, that’s wrong. He’s not _outside_ his body, no, he’s so firmly _inside_ it that his transport is all there is. There’s nothing else except this beautiful, intricate collection of cells and matter and electricity pinging through every piece of him, this glorious machine that carries his consciousness from one place to the next. But the only place he wants to be is _here,_ beneath John’s hands, letting John _have_ him and _shape_ him and _play_ him like a treasured instrument and his transport _sings and sings and sings…_

John is talking to him, encouraging him, smiling down at him and saying sweet, wonderful things, but Sherlock doesn’t process his words so much as he _feels_ them. He can _feel_ how much John cherishes him, _feel_ how John worships him, body and mind, _feel_ how John loves him, God, how John _loves him…_

He’s floating, drifting in a current of endless adoration, the love and trust flowing back and forth between them in this moment so visceral and tangible that _God,_ he swears he can taste it. John’s eyes have grown dark and intense and Sherlock loses himself in them, drowns in the meaning of this intimate exchange, these actions that convey every unspoken word he prays John will understand. He surrenders himself entirely, his being reduced to only what he is here in this moment, and nothing else matters but this, just _this._

He’s not sure how John makes him come again. At some point John flicks the clothes pegs off of Sherlock’s nipples sending fresh waves of pain rippling through his nervous system, but he’s fairly certain that’s not what tips him over the edge. The vibrator is still inside him and he thinks at some point John resumes touching his cock, but he can’t really process what’s happening anymore. There’s just _touch_ and _sound_ and _love_ and everything is perfect and then he spurts hot stripes of semen up his own abdomen while John watches and _yes, John, look, look what I do for you, look what you’ve done to me, John, John, yes, watch me, watch me, please…_

The vibrator is gone and John is on top of him, pushing his cock inside him. John’s cock is longer and thicker than the vibrator, and the penetration flares and burns and Sherlock cries out but he can’t move. It doesn’t matter, though, because his body is John’s, it’s always been John’s, and now comes the part where John will reward him for being good.

John fucks him fast and hard. Sherlock can feel it, feel John’s thick prick splitting him open, taking John’s body _inside his own,_ and _God,_ what a thought, to have John Watson _inside him,_ so amazing, so beautiful, it’s a privilege he can never describe. He stares up at John’s face, awestruck, as John moves on top of him, his brow furrowed in animalistic concentration. He loves watching John when he’s like this, _claiming_ him, exercising his dominance over Sherlock’s body. 

Then John’s hand wraps around his throat, and for a moment, Sherlock stiffens. It’s not intentional, just an instinctual fight-or-flight response, but John waits until Sherlock’s muscles go lax once more before he tightens his grip and cuts off his air flow.

Sherlock couldn’t struggle even if he wanted to. Normally when John chokes him he’ll thrash and flail, make John work to take him down, but he’s so far past that now the thought seems absurd. Not only that, but he’s so thoroughly bound that he’s not sure he could lift so much as a finger in protest. So instead, he simply gazes up adoringly into John’s feral eyes as his vision dims and the world whites out.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, _Jesus, Sherlock, oh my God…”_

Sherlock slowly regains awareness of his surroundings. John is still on top of him, thrusting lazily into his passage, and he’s peppering Sherlock’s face with gentle, reverent kisses. Sherlock can breathe again, so he knows John must have finished inside him. That means that Sherlock was _good._ He grins at the thought.

After an indeterminate amount of time, John pulls back and cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands, stilling his hips at long last as he stares Sherlock straight in the eye. “You are so fucking perfect.”

Sherlock sighs in contentment. He’s _perfect._

John’s weight disappears, and Sherlock flinches as John’s cock slips out of his body. He feels wet and open, and he moans as a trickle of John’s come leaks from his hole down to his tailbone. John will love that; he loves it when Sherlock’s messy for him. The thought sends more sparks down his spine, and he shivers with delight.

Then the rope disappears from between his lips, and John is talking to him. 

_Come back._

_Come back._

Sherlock opens his eyes.

“Hi there, love. I need you with me for just a minute, okay?”

Sherlock blinks mutely up at him.

“Can you turn your head to the side for me? You need to drink some water.” John holds up a glass with a straw for Sherlock to consider.

Sherlock obeys thoughtlessly, and he’s glad he did. The moment the water touches his tongue he realises how agonizingly parched he is, and he takes three more sips in quick succession before pulling back to lick his chapped lips. Then he lifts his head back up for more.

“Easy now, just a little at a time, we don’t want you to choke, love.” John’s stroking his hair while Sherlock drinks. It’s heavenly.

When he’s finished, he lets his head drop back down to the table. The world still feels surreal, and it’s taking him a long time to process the words that John is saying, but he forces himself to _focus._

“Sweetheart, we have two options for what can happen now. I can take you upstairs with me and we can have a shower together and get you cleaned up, or I can leave you down here for a bit to relax, and then we’ll have a bath once you’re finished. Which would you like?”

Options. Options are hard at times like this, but Sherlock knows John needs him to _communicate._ John can’t read his mind when he’s like this.

Sherlock swallows and struggles to form a sentence. Finally, he gives up and settles for a word. 

“Bath.”

“Okay. I’m going to go upstairs now and leave you alone to enjoy yourself. I’m leaving the monitor on so if you need me, just say my name and I’ll come right back.”

Sherlock almost chuckles to himself. Rather unusual use of Rosie’s baby monitor, that. John is quite a pervert. Sherlock fucking loves it.

“Do you understand? I need verbal consent right now, love, then you can go back to relaxing.”

“Understood.”

“Good.” John bends down and kisses Sherlock’s forehead. Then he disappears.

And Sherlock drifts. He loves being alone after John’s used him. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is that he loves to just lie there and _be,_ to feel all the ways John’s taken him apart and put him back together and made him _fly._

He’s high.

He’s high out of his goddamn mind.

It’s the purest high he’s ever known.

It’s the only high he ever wants to know.

After a while, he starts to feel again. He feels the jute rope chafing his epidermis. He feels the ache in his hips from how wide his legs are spread. He feels John’s come leaking from his hole, still open and exposed and raw from rough use. He feels his throat, burning from screaming and the force of John’s hand. He feels the salt from the tears he’s shed drying on his cheeks. He feels the cold metal of the table against the vertebrae of his spine. He feels the slight chill of the air.

And just at that moment, just at that moment when he finally process the extent of his discomfort, it’s all washed away in a swelling wave of _pride._

He is _proud_ of himself. Proud of how far he let John take him down, proud of how good he was when John asked him to be, proud of what he endured simply because John wanted to watch him take it. Proud of his transport for obeying John’s commands. Proud of his mind for finally letting go. And proud of his heart for loving John enough to let himself be this vulnerable. This fragile. This truest, purest form of himself.

John returns. Sherlock’s heart rate increases, and he feels warm and almost giddy with happiness.

John comes to his side and kisses Sherlock deeply, then pulls back with a reluctant smile.

“Alright love. I need to check you for tearing, yeah? Is that alright?”

Sherlock shudders. He doesn’t like this part, but he knows he has to endure it for John to agree to rough sex.

He wills his tongue to form the words he needs to say. “Can you untie my legs first?” The thought of being touched again in such a sensitive place while his mobility is still restricted feels too… clawing, too oppressive.

John’s face lights up. He _loves_ it when Sherlock verbalizes his desires like that-- he’s told Sherlock before that it makes him feel like they’re being _safe._ So Sherlock is proud of himself for speaking up and making his needs known.

“Of course, sweetheart! Here we go, nice and easy…” He unbinds Sherlocks legs, and Sherlock sighs as he stretches them out experimentally, working out the stiffness.

Finally, he feels ready. He spreads them again and tips his pelvis up. “Okay, John. Go ahead.”

John puts one hand on Sherlock’s thigh reassuringly as he lowers his other hand below. Then he gently presses two digits inside, scissoring them to examine Sherlock’s passage completely.

Sherlock grits his teeth and closes his eyes. It hurts, it fucking _hurts,_ he’s sore and tender and it needs to _stop--_

And then John’s fingers are gone, and he’s kissing Sherlock and thanking him for being so good, and Sherlock closes his legs and takes a deep breath and he feels still and calm once more.

John unties the rest of the ropes and rubs out Sherlock’s arms and legs, checking for any signs of restricted bloodflow. He wipes down Sherlock’s torso and cock and arse with a warm, wet flannel. He helps Sherlock to sit, pressing soft, sweet kisses against his neck as Sherlock whimpers and moans from the pain. He gets Sherlock to stand, and wraps him in a dressing gown before gently guiding him upstairs.

He takes Sherlock into the bath with him and washes his hair. He tells Sherlock how good he was and how much he loves him. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, he just stares dreamily off into space, but he knows John understands.

Sherlock’s not quite sure what time it is, but it’s apparently not nighttime yet because John doesn’t put him into bed. Instead, he brings him to the sitting room and lays him out on the sofa, then he feeds him cheese and fruit and chocolate between kisses and praise. Sherlock licks and sucks at John’s fingers and closes his eyes and drifts for a while.

And later that night, once Sherlock’s come more fully back to himself, John massages him with earth-scented oils and arnica cream, and they both admire the beautiful bruises blossoming all over his body. They eat dinner and watch crap telly while John plays with his hair, and Sherlock feels so spent and sated he thinks he might just melt into the sofa and disappear altogether.

And then they go to bed, and staring up into the dark from the safety of John’s arms, Sherlock whispers, “I love you.”

John whispers, “I love you, too.”

“And I’m not just saying that because I’m high. People say weird things when they’re high.”

John pauses. “No, they don’t. They tell the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, thanks so much for your patience on this one! I kept becoming distracted (ahem) by the “Stag Night” prompt which, never fear, is next in the queue!
> 
> As always, I live for comments & prompts - leave it all below!


End file.
